


Fifty-Seven

by matchaberries



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Assassins!Minchan, But it's there, Lovers who kill together stay together, M/M, Mentioned Cannibalism, Their relationship is subtle, They're really messed up, They're sadistic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 17:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30008685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchaberries/pseuds/matchaberries
Summary: Chan and Minho were partners. Always had been, always will be. Best friends since childhood, and partners now, doing what they did best. They were partners in every aspect of the word: eternal loyalty, eternal trust, eternal love. Of course, this love existed in the only way they knew, considering the unfortunate and rather fucked up circumstances that led them to their current situation.Neither would ever admit what they were doing was wrong, far beyond the point of having even an inkling of humanity left.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Kudos: 19





	Fifty-Seven

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse this mess of a fic, I just really wanted to write about minchan and it seems that brain can only create stories involving death. Luckily, I was feeling nice and decided rather than make my main characters die, I would have them kill someone instead. Enjoy!

Chan and Minho were partners. Always had been, always will be. Best friends since childhood, and partners now, doing what they did best. They were partners in every aspect of the word: eternal loyalty, eternal trust, eternal love. Of course, this love existed in the only way they knew, considering the unfortunate and rather fucked up circumstances that led them to their current situation. But, that was pressing far too deep on a metaphorical scabbed wound that should have scarred over years prior, yet was instead picked at over and over until it was a bloody, raw mess. Which then, in turn, placed them _here_ , exactly where they felt they were meant to be — again, considering the trauma they endured and were never able to heal from. Therefore, it was only fair to embrace all that came with the baggage. Neither would ever admit what they were doing was wrong, far beyond the point of having even an inkling of humanity left.

This month’s target was a man in his thirties, average height and build, not too hard to figure out. It had only taken them a week and an outing to a bar to become close with their target, named “#57” in their head as a method to keep track. The partners discovered that #57 was alone, pitifully so, with no family he could count on. That was what they had been counting on, as those who had no one looking for them were the easiest to erase. They didn’t know _why_ #57 was being hunted by their employer, but they never knew why any of them were. All they _did know_ was that they had a set time limit to get the job done, and make sure the mess was cleaned up. Payment was always 50% upfront in cash, their reputation and experience allowing the small reward.

According to Chan, #57 would arrive in less than five minutes, allowing Minho to finish up the meal he was preparing. Chan was a year older than Minho, causing him to always claim he was the leader and the one who got to set up how they would go about completing a job. Minho quite honestly found it ridiculous, after all, it was only the two of them, why couldn’t they just trade off? After presenting this argument to Chan, he was given the go ahead to set today’s meeting up.

Minho was quite pleased. He had just finished setting the table up when the doorbell rang, Chan lifting himself from the couch and walking past Minho to the door, giving his waist a gentle squeeze of reassurance. The younger only rolled his eyes. He didn’t need to be treated like an amateur: they had been in this business for roughly six years, being thrust into this life after he had only just become legal.

  
He heard Chan chattering with their target, making small talk and letting out fake laughter; he had always been the talkative one, charisma practically oozing from his pores. Had Minho met him under different circumstances, he was sure he would have fallen into the same trap all the others had. But, he was not in that situation, meaning he could tell the way Chan's laughter was forced due to the lack of his dimple showing — a dimple he was blessed enough to see daily, one that was ingrained into his mind and made his insides ache in the best way. He allowed a small smile to grace his lips as the two entered the room, one that screamed security and hospitality to anyone naïve enough to buy it, which, in today’s case, #57 ate right up.

  
Their target was wearing a simple button up and slacks, and Minho eyed the shirt with interest, making a mental note to collect it during clean up: he quite liked the print.

  
“Thank you so much for joining us for dinner,” Minho spoke with a practiced airiness to his voice, allowing a twinkling laugh to erupt past his still smiling lips, “we were worried you wouldn’t agree since we haven’t known each other for long.”

  
“Nonsense! You both are the closest I have to friends at the moment. Who am I to deny an invitation to home-cooked food?” #57’s smile was broad, his right hand twisting into the hem of his shirt, unpracticed in such a new situation. Minho found it disgusting; he was sure Chan would scoff at his distaste, without malice, knowing Minho found _anything_ anyone did _appalling_ — Chan, of course, being the only exception, but that was besides the point. “All of this smells delicious by the way, are you the one who cooked it, or did Chan?”

  
He cast a small glance towards the older of the two, who had since made his way around the table to sit at its head. Chan shook his head with a chuckle, waving a hand dismissively.

  
“No, no, it was all Minho, he’s always been an amazing cook. I’m sure you’ll find his food _quite_ delicious.” The younger only raised an eyebrow, walking to the seat beside Chan's and letting himself slide into it with ease. He raised a delicate hand towards the seat across from his own, meeting #57’s eyes with a heated gaze, knowing that he had quite the influence over others.

  
“Please, sit. We don’t want the meal to become cold,” his voice was lax, laced with a sweetness that drew their target right in.

  
The man cleared his throat, obviously still awkward, and it nearly made Minho feel bad, emphasis on nearly. After he was seated, with shaky hands folded in front of him, Chan poured him a glass of water as Minho reached over to the lasagna he had prepared. He cut a square from the side where the ceramic was blue, and served it on a plate, gently pushing it towards #57. As the man said his thanks, Minho cut two slices from the opposite side, where the ceramic was faded, and set one before Chan, the other before himself. 

  
At this, #57’s eyes darted from his own plate to the other two, a question in his eyes. It was obvious that he didn’t have the courage to ask it, so Minho only smirked to himself, and decided to indulge him.

  
“Chan and I are vegetarian, I made our half with a soy substitute. You mentioned that you loved lasagna last time we went out, so I wanted to make it for you, I hope you understand,” he told him, eyes fluttering coyly, smile gentle, the picture of innocence. The man’s eyes immediately widened, and he began spewing apologies, picking up his fork and taking the first bite.

  
_Hook, line, and sinker._

  
Minho cast a subtle glance Chan’s way, before lifting his own fork and eating the first bit of his soy-but-not-actually-soy lasagna. Chan let out an airy laugh, eagerly digging into his own, his free hand coming up to rest on the inside of Minho’s wrist, feeling the way his pulse had quickened as he stared in rapt attention at #57. The younger used the hand holding his fork to gently twirl it as he swallowed. _One turn, two, three, four, there!_

  
It was comical to watch the way #57’s eyes flickered, hand dropping the fork to clutch at his throat. A cough made its way out of his throat, wet and sticky. Minho let out an exaggerated gasp.

  
“Are you alright? Please, take a sip of water, you poor thing.” The man reached for the full glass, gagging as Chan lazily reached out, toppling the cup over.

  
“Oops! How clumsy of me,” Chan's tone became dark in an instant, his eyes narrowing dangerously. Minho giggled, grasping onto the hand rubbing over his wrist, and squeezing in the way he clutched onto whatever was closest to him whenever he truly laughed. The delight coursing through his body was overwhelming, sizzling through his veins; he had always wanted to try poisoning. Chan's methods usually involved more blood, more violence, and while Minho enjoyed getting his hands dirty, he had decided to go a more clean and stress-free route.

  
Their target was clawing at his throat harshly, as foam began to bubble from his lips, tinged red with blood. Minho’s nose scrunched up, finding it rather unsanitary. He made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat, and Chan immediately understood, reaching over and pushing #57 to the ground by his shoulder, where he landed with a thud and a strangled gasp. Minho then nodded his thanks, smiling at Chan in the way only he ever saw, eyes thinning into crescents. The elder returned it, dimple on display, interlacing their fingers and picking his fork back up, continuing to eat.

  
“It’s delicious, darling, what’s the secret ingredient for today?” Minho motioned with his fork towards the ground where their barely breathing target lay, eyes bulging grotesquely, and then towards the freezer in the kitchen.

  
“We had a bit of fifty-six's leftovers from last week,” his tone chirpy as he continued to eat, humming softly to himself, thinking about the softest flesh to cut into in order to pack #57 into the freezer.


End file.
